Half of My Heart ✔️

03 | just my type

The next day, I call Dani as I leave the dance studio. She picks up just as I heave my dance bag into the back seat of the car. "What's up," she says. I can hear her munching on something.

"Nothing," I say, a bit out of breath from practice. "How are you doing? You feeling alright?"

Dani groans loudly. "I'm fine, Scarlett. I swear, you're more concerned about my well being than anyone else. Even Mom and Dad, and they're serious about that shit. Let's talk about something else. Like, why are you so out of breath?"

I ponder questioning Dani for more information about how she's feeling, but decide to let her have this. "I just finished my dance class. I really fell out of shape over summer, so that's why I'm so out of breath."

"Fatass," she mutters, still chewing on the other end of the line. "Let me guess. A two-hour practice?"

"Three hours," I correct, sliding into the driver's seat. I transfer her to the Bluetooth speaker as I start up the car. "I have to grind for the next few months for my audition. And practice was great, thanks for asking."

"Sounds like a grand ol' time," Dani says. "I mean, is it really worth it to practice three hours a day for five days a week? What do you get out of it? A sore ass and ugly feet."

I groan loudly, driving through campus. "You sound like Mom right now. I . . . like dancing. I don't get on your case when you spend hours reading or playing the piano or doing calculus."

"Hm," Dani says, and I can tell she's thinking. "Well I've always loved doing those things. You didn't get this serious about dancing until about a year ago. Around the time of my a—"

"Yeah, so what?" I feel my palms get a bit sweaty over the steering wheel as the conversation veers toward the topic I do not want to discuss. That familiar, heavy feeling starts to set in. "Believe it or not, not everything is about you. I dance because I like doing it."

Dani's silent after that for a few seconds, chewing on whatever snack she's eating. "Whatever. I just don't want you killing yourself over something you don't even enjoy that much. Sue me."

I pull into my dorm's parking lot, turning off the engine and sinking low into my seat. I rub my face, thinking. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just . . . under a lot of stress right now. Balancing class with dance and everything."

"It's fine, I get it. We can talk about something else. Like, are you sexually active?"

"From one terrible topic to another," I say. "And no, I am not. Not even romantically active, if we're being honest here."

Dani sighs. "Seriously? Any dates with hot guys? Or any dates with mediocre-looking guys? Any dates at all? I'm desperate here."

"No dates," I say. "But I do have to work on a project with this guy in about an hour. But he's an asshole, so nothing there."

"I don't care if he's an asshole. Is he cute?"

I think back to the way he looked at me on Monday. If I ignore the condescending look on his face and the amused glint in his eyes, I have to admit that he is definitely not unattractive. "If he'd never opened his mouth, I'd say that he's pretty cute. In a brooding, rude type of way. But since he's an absolute asshole, I'm gonna say he looks like Steve Buscemi."